


Landslide

by boonies



Category: DBSK|Tohoshinki|TVXQ, JYJ - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boonies/pseuds/boonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NaNoWriMo #3: "There's not enough crazy possessive Jaejoong in this fandom."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Landslide

*

 

On Yoochun's only night off, during an okay dinner with a fairly attractive noona whose name Yoochun kinda sorta maybe vaguely half-remembers, Jaejoong sends an emergency text.

 

_20:01 come fix my tv or i will literally die_

 

Grumpy, Yoochun drags himself to Jaejoong's dark apartment, trips over a depressed Hiro, and growls, "Am I an electrician."

 

Jaejoong pokes his dumb head out of a pink bedazzled blanket, couch cushions shifting under his bare chest and tries, "Didn't you play one on TV."

 

"No."

 

"Please just fix it, Yoochunnie."

 

With a heavy sigh, Yoochun crouches by the entertainment center, mechanically inspecting the outlet.

 

"Yeah," he drawls, "it's unplugged."

 

Jaejoong pauses.

 

"Oh."

 

"I'm going home," Yoochun mumbles, shoving the plug in and naturally dusting off a collection of randomly scattered DVDs.

 

Like a slinky, Jaejoong flops to the floor in a tangle of skinny limbs and decorative cushions, cheek smushed against the carpet. "I have the flu."

 

Yoochun straightens, cracking his back.

 

"You stripped on stage," he shrugs, tucking a bookshelf back into place. "I'm surprised you're not dead."

 

"...it wasn't that cold..."

 

Nonplussed, Yoochun fixes a crooked portrait. "You wanna be cremated, right."

 

Hiro pads over like a sad sack of fur and slumps across Yoochun's feet, snuffling at his ankle.

 

"Okay," Yoochun reasons, "I fixed your TV, can I go."

 

Hiro pokes his wet snout closer, licking at Yoochun's toes.

 

"I'm sick," Jaejoong whines brokenly.

 

"Yeah," Yoochun deadpans because he's immune, "so am I. And unlike you, I can't get wasted at work, so—"

 

Jaejoong squirms on the floor, blanket tangling around his hips, shredded jeans sagging down his bony ass. "Make me soup."

 

Yoochun pauses.

 

Gently, he shakes Hiro off and trudges to the kitchenette, slamming cabinets open, throwing the nearest pot on the stove, and sloppily sprinkling a packet of miso into lukewarm water.

 

By the time the tofu's showing signs of severe overcooking, Jaejoong creeps over, somewhat guiltily.

 

"Were you asleep," he asks after a thoughtful pause.

 

"I was on a date," Yoochun grumbles, eyeing the pot. "You know that. I told you that."

 

"I forgot, I'm sorry."

 

Insistently, Hiro shoves his fluffy head between Yoochun's feet, paws resting on each side like warm slippers.

 

"...he likes you more than he likes me," Jaejoong comments with a sad little smile.

 

"To be fair," Yoochun turns off the stove, "I never gave him alcohol poisoning."

 

"Oh," Jaejoong says, amusement growing and tugging the corners of his lips into a sleepy smile. "You saw that."

 

"Heard about it," Yoochun lies. Recklessly, he pours the soup into a bowl, slides it across the counter at Jaejoong, spilling more than half, and murmurs a parting, "See you in China."

 

Jaejoong catches his elbow.

 

Yoochun hesitates.

 

Hiro licks at his heel.

 

"I wish he didn't like you so much, Yoochun-ah," Jaejoong says softly, knuckles white.

 

It's too warm in Jaejoong's apartment.

 

Yoochun needs to go.

 

"Noona's waiting in the car," he says apologetically, prying Jaejoong's fingers off.

 

"...you brought her here," Jaejoong asks coolly, eyes dark.

 

With an awkward flinch, Yoochun rolls up his sleeve and rubs at a reddening bruise.

 

"Only day off," he mumbles.

 

Jaejoong glances at Yoochun's skin.

 

And smiles.

 

*

 

On the plane, Yoochun switches with a manager.

 

"Feeling better?"

 

Jaejoong presses his forehead to the window, mask damp with sweat.

 

Spreading his legs inappropriately wide, Yoochun sinks into the seat, not bothering with the buckle, one knee knocking hard against Jaejoong's. "My soup didn't work?"

 

"It tasted like feet," Jaejoong groans miserably, one fist thumping against his chest as though actual feet are lodged there. "Show me."

 

Unhurried, Yoochun takes out his phone. "Show you what."

 

"Yoochun."

 

Grinning, Yoochun unlocks his phone, tilting the screen at Jaejoong.

 

"She has two chins," Jaejoong drones, unimpressed, and slips his sunglasses back on.

 

"What," Yoochun argues with a frown, reexamining the picture, "no, she doesn't."

 

"She will in two years."

 

"That's..." Yoochun starts, and he means to sound offended and indignant because he's definitely both of those things, but his voice catches on something stupid and trips on a laugh, "...awful."

 

"Then don't smile," Jaejoong whispers.

 

He leans away from the window and burrows into Yoochun's side, burning hot.

 

Yoochun's definitely not smiling.

 

*

 

In China, Jaejoong says, "My bed is wrong."

 

Yoochun only moves over and makes room because it's late and they have to get up early and it's just a bed and they're just—

 

—brothers.

 

"What's wrong with _your_ bed," he murmurs into his pillow.

 

There's a gust of cool air and then the resettling of covers and then Jaejoong's cold feet are tangling with Yoochun's.

 

"Spider," he tells Yoochun's shoulder, tip of his freezing nose rubbing into Yoochun's warm skin. "Big fat Chinese spider."

 

"And the hotel's not on fire yet?"

 

Jaejoong cuddles closer.

 

A sharp chill coats Yoochun's body, biting at all the warm parts of him.

 

"You're almost thirty," he chides halfheartedly, curling away from Jaejoong. "How can you still be afraid of—"

 

Jaejoong crams a fistful of hairy fuzzy spiders at Yoochun's face.

 

Recoiling in horror, heart pounding wildly, Yoochun quickly rolls to his back, fending the thing off by anxiously batting at Jaejoong's hand.

 

"You're almost thirty, too," Jaejoong laughs, sleepy, propped up on one elbow and lingering above Yoochun.

 

Yoochun relaxes under him.

 

"Hyung," he says, staring at the ceiling. "What's going on."

 

Jaejoong tosses the toy spiders behind him.

 

They land by the door with a soft thud.

 

"Nothing."

 

"Liar," Yoochun sighs.

 

Jaejoong says nothing, leeching Yoochun's heat.

 

Slowly, he warms up, still hovering above Yoochun and so Yoochun waits.

 

"For being almost thirty," Jaejoong says quietly and slumps, drapes himself across half of Yoochun, face buried by Yoochun's neck in the pillow, voice muffled, "it shouldn't feel so empty."

 

Yoochun shifts, uncomfortable.

 

"Hyung," he says, shuffling his hips away.

 

"There's just this..." Jaejoong continues, glued to Yoochun's body. One sharp hipbone scrapes against Yoochun's stomach, "...recurring emptiness lately?"

 

Yoochun stops struggling.

 

It's been forever since they've had a deep, philosophical discussion.

 

While sober.

 

When they shared a room, they shared everything, and Yoochun always thought that absence would make the heart grow fonder, but it's made him oddly fucking twitchy, anxious, like an arrow set too taut on the bow.

 

Suddenly introspective, he gives a small nod, heartbeat slowing to match Jaejoong's through their thin t-shirts, and says flippantly, "I'm assuming you're writing a new song."

 

Jaejoong's jaw digs into Yoochun's collarbone. "No matter how much fun I have, it feels empty."

 

Yoochun's hand moves up, buries itself in Jaejoong's hair instinctively. "Okay, so yeah. New song?"

 

"Chun-ah," Jaejoong mumbles, encircling Yoochun's waist. "You and me have been walking the same scary..."

 

He seems to struggle for the right word, which is familiar and comforting and stupidly validating, so Yoochun supplies a sympathetic, "...tightrope."

 

"The same scary tightrope," Jaejoong says, voice rough, grateful, "but why am I the only one losing balance."

 

Yoochun's fingers still, curled around a lock of fluffy bleached hair. "You're not."

 

Jaejoong snakes his body up, fitting seamlessly into Yoochun's side, one leg thrown over Yoochun's knees. "Do you feel off-balance, Yoochun-ah."

 

"No," Yoochun admits because it's easy to confess things in the dark. "Just feel like I went from raw to ripe to rotten already."

 

Jaejoong stills.

 

"...that would make a good song," he breathes, seemingly inspired.

 

"Write it down," Yoochun grins.

 

Jaejoong scrambles for a pen instead of his phone.

 

He clicks on a bedside lamp and folds himself by Yoochun's side, scribbling lyrics on Yoochun's arm.

 

It's ridiculous and perhaps inappropriately intimate but it's just Jaejoong and it's nothing new.

 

So Yoochun falls asleep grinning.

 

*

 

"No," Junsu complains, making a face, "don't practice on me."

 

Jaejoong backtracks into the hallway, eyebrows raised.

 

"Hyung," Junsu whines, fending Yoochun off with an exasperated scrunch of his face, "he saw a cute girl so he's trying out pickup lines. On _me._ Me."

 

Jaejoong pauses, runs a hand through his hair, and meets Yoochun's eyes.

 

"Let me hear one," he says calmly.

 

Yoochun clears his throat.

 

Inattentively, he lets Junsu go, gaze fixed on Jaejoong's face. "No."

 

Jaejoong's eyes flash a kind of warning. "Try it on me."

 

Confident, Yoochun steels himself, and ends up saying, maybe too awkwardly, eyes helplessly averted, "I'd... make the earth move for... you?"

 

Jaejoong pauses.

 

"Yoochunnie," he says, part amused, part the exact opposite, "the earth moves on its own." He cocks his head as he steps closer, looping an arm around Yoochun's. "It rotates around itself and the sun, also, tectonic plates—"

 

"Hyung—" Yoochun grins, defeated.

 

"You should say," Jaejoong murmurs, lips barely brushing against Yoochun's jaw, " _I'd end the world for you._ "

 

A heartbeat misspent on not breathing, Yoochun jerks away.

 

Jaejoong puts his hands up amicably.

 

"Ah," he smiles, a little too sweetly, "new song."

 

Junsu rolls his eyes and shoves between them.

 

"Hyung," he waves, dragging Yoochun by his coat lapels, "see you in December."

 

*

 

A week into December, during an okay kiss with a noona whose name Yoochun definitely probably sort of totally remembers this time, Jaejoong calls four times.

 

"It's really dead this time," he says.

 

"Please tell me you're talking about the TV," Yoochun says casually, already groping for his discarded jeans, phone held between his cheek and his shoulder.

 

"Yoochunnie," Jaejoong whines helplessly.

 

"Be there in ten," Yoochun grumbles and hangs up.

 

"...are you serious," nameless noona asks incredulously, wiping off her smudged lipstick and adjusting a bra strap.

 

Yoochun pauses, one pant leg on.

 

"Hyung really can't live without his TV."

 

*

 

"I think Hiro peed on it."

 

Yoochun glances at the innocent little mop of sadness at his feet. "Your dog peed _on_ the TV. Really."

 

Jaejoong shrugs. "The wires, maybe."

 

"Okay," Yoochun grins, folding himself by the entertainment center. Hiro crawls into his lap, tail wagging. "...wait, how do I fix this without getting electrocuted."

 

Jaejoong hunkers down next to him like a child. "Want me to look on the internet."

 

Annoyed, Yoochun pokes at a wet wire. "If you can do that much, why do you need—"

 

Jaejoong presses his lips to Yoochun's neck, inhaling. "Did you sleep with her."

 

Yoochun's heart reels. "No."

 

"Did you want to sleep with her," Jaejoong asks into his nape, teeth cutting into the skin.

 

Yoochun doesn't flinch. "Yeah."

 

"Sorry my TV broke," Jaejoong says, shoving a hand up Yoochun's shirt, forcing Hiro out of the way.

 

"It's fine," Yoochun murmurs, closes his eyes, then pushes Jaejoong's hand away. "Let's fix it."

 

*

 

Yoochun is straight.

 

Yoochun wants a wife and children. A normal family. A standard life. Wants to eventually retire from the spotlight and get old and fat and ugly and average, wants sleepless nights and report cards, car seats and wall stickers, soft shared beds and spicy shared meals.

 

He doesn't want to misinterpret things.

 

Doesn't want to read Jaejoong wrong.

 

Doesn't want to indulge whatever crisis he seems to be going through.

 

Definitely doesn't want to resurrect that old pang of want, the stupid hopeless yearning of youth and of not knowing any better, of that ancient clueless belief that it's okay to share beds and feed each other and naively call out to the other as a soulmate.

 

Not this far into adulthood.

 

So he overbooks himself through January, skips the holidays, for the first time spends them on his own, moping and composing sentimental garbage only to forget everything by sunrise.

 

The month stretches, long and unbearable, low on texts and calls and disgustingly cute emoticons.

 

And then somewhere in the middle of the ocean, while delivering a line for the fourth time, breath misting, Yoochun realizes—with a sudden distracted sleep-deprived jolt—this is the longest they've ever been apart.

 

So instead of fondness, the absence creates something sharp and ugly and palpable inside him.

 

Something _wrong_.

 

*

 

Yoochun procrastinates on Jaejoong's birthday present.

 

There's nothing that Jaejoong needs or wants and everyone's learned by now to stock his house with alcohol, so Yoochun can't even get him that.

 

So he focuses on filming and post-production and a day after Jaejoong's birthday, he lets himself into Jaejoong's trashed bedroom, and clinks a bottle of wine to the tiara sliding off Jaejoong's hungover head.

 

"It's from your birth year," he shrugs, eyes drawn to the smudged eyeliner pandafying Jaejoong's tired face.

 

"We have the same birth year," Jaejoong grunts, voice rough with whatever's decomposing in his mouth.

 

"Yeah," Yoochun nods, parking his ass atop Jaejoong's back and kicking his feet against the boxspring to the chanted _happy birthday_ inside his head. "This particular bottle was made in Gongju, though." Nonchalantly, he slides it to Jaejoong's neck. "Somebody in your hometown was probably stomping all these grapes to death when you were born."

 

Jaejoong's mouth twitches, face half buried in a makeup-blotched pillow. "So poetic."

 

Yoochun hops off, slapping a crudely-cut booklet to Jaejoong's nightstand. "Your other present."

 

Jaejoong perks up, stretching into a sitting position, bottle of wine cradled possessively in his lap. "Is it a ring," he asks hoarsely, "I collect those now."

 

Yoochun's gut twists.

 

"Nah," he shrugs, "the next ring I buy is gonna be for my wife."

 

Jaejoong's features darken. "What's my present."

 

Unhappily, Yoochun gestures at the booklet. "Made you a coupon book. Redeem them within a year."

 

Interest piqued, Jaejoong stretches a pale arm to scratch at the stand.

 

"...are you in preschool," he laughs, but his eyes brighten with every tiny neon page he turns. " _One free liver transplant_?"

 

Yoochun grins. "Didn't say it'd be my liver so try to... not cash that one in."

 

Flushed with pleasant happy things, Jaejoong topples over, sheets rustling, bottle of wine tumbling off his lap.

 

*

 

Yoochun forgets about the dumb coupon book within a week.

 

*

 

_00:34 someone asked me to give them junsu, am i his dad_

 

Yoochun flicks his cigarette into the sea, smirking.

 

A distant reflector switches on, illuminating the set behind him, so Yoochun hurriedly forces his frozen fingers to type _did you give him away again_

 

_00:35 yeah she can have him_

 

Yoochun jogs in place to warm up, staring at his phone and contemplating a proper reply but mostly drafting a mental apology to Junsu.

 

There's nothing for a few seconds and then,

 

_00:36 her mother asked for you_

 

The director waves an impatient gloved hand, shifting in his icicle-covered chair.

 

Shivering, Yoochun takes the time to grin and gloat and ask _hyung,_ _did you give me to ahjumma_

 

There's no reply.

 

*

 

_03:48 can't give you to anyone_

 

 

*

 

A NII organizer shuffles closer and wedges herself by Yoochun's side.

 

"Jaejoong-ssi, your hand," she apologizes, surreptitiously covering Yoochun's back with a stack of papers, "sincere apologies but it... looks... not appropriate."

 

With practiced stealth, Yoochun dares a glance.

 

They're crowding around a small table, bent over autographed albums, cameras at their back, an auditorium full of giddy fans.

 

Jaejoong's hand is barely even touching him, so Yoochun ignores it.

 

This is perfectly fine.

 

They're brothers.

 

They're affectionate.

 

Jaejoong presses harder, slipping his fingers into Yoochun's back pocket.

 

"...okay," the organizer says and lumbers away.

 

Junsu sighs.

 

Looking annoyed, he rounds the table to squeeze in by Yoochun and knocks Jaejoong's hand away.

 

A mic hits Jaejoong's chin as he startles, feedback echoing around the auditorium, and then no one is paying attention again, so Yoochun glances to the side, catches Jaejoong's warm amused gaze, and finds himself naturally bypassing Junsu and gravitating closer.

 

Only because he needs to borrow Jaejoong's pen.

 

To sign autographs.

 

For the fans.

 

Their elbows brush as he reaches for it without a word.

 

Grinning, Jaejoong's a step ahead, pen already proffered.

 

It fits between Yoochun's fingers perfectly, warm and solid, and Jaejoong cracks a stupid joke, vigorously pats Yoochun's pockets down to the flustered roar of the audience—he does it, he says, just to make sure Yoochun's not ~stealing office supplies.

  
Forgets to take his hand off Yoochun's ass.

 

*

 

Jaejoong comes to collect on a Saturday morning.

 

"It says good for anything, anytime," he announces from the doorway, waving the coupon book at Yoochun's bedraggled face.

 

"...hyung, no, I've had two hours of sleep..."

 

Jaejoong shoves him into a jacket and boots him outside.

 

*

 

"Drinking."

 

"Drinking," Jaejoong nods happily, tucked away inside their izakaya, banchan lining the table.

 

Exhausted, Yoochun groans but grudgingly opens his mouth when Jaejoong cuts through a long piece of kimchi and attacks Yoochun with it.

 

It's a habit, nothing more.

 

It's not intimate or suggestive.

 

Yoochun's not getting the wrong idea.

 

"Wider, Chun-ah," Jaejoong whispers softly, sliding closer.

 

And because Yoochun is so very tired and about to get so very shitfaced, he parts his lips and licks at Jaejoong's fingers.

 

*

 

Jaejoong throws a belated housewarming party for Junsu.

 

Just us three and instagram, he tells Junsu, and uses another coupon to make Yoochun wrap early.

 

"Why are we having my housewarming party at _your_ house," Junsu fusses, clearly displeased, nibbling on a piece of pajeon and peeling the scallion out, eyes crossed in concentration.

 

Shamelessly, Jaejoong scoots his chair closer to the table and smiles. "I forgot to buy a lot of meat."

 

"...how does that answer my question..."

 

Yoochun shifts with a yawn, trying to stretch his legs.

 

His toes touch Jaejoong's.

 

"Dibs on the good piece," he grins, eyeing the tabletop grill.

 

A perfect slice of pork slides down, sizzling.

 

"Say ah," Jaejoong commands smoothly, eyes narrowed in contentment, chopsticks canted at Yoochun's mouth.

 

The meat burns Yoochun's lips and tongue but tastes nine kinds of perfect and so Yoochun fans his mouth in an exaggerated fashion, eyes bright and focused on Jaejoong's.

 

"...hyung, shouldn't _I_ get the good piece since it's my housewarmi—"

 

The grill clicks softly, cooling down.

 

Junsu gives it a mournful glance.

 

Gradually, Yoochun feels guilt lap at his feet, so he adds a raw piece to the grill, just for Junsu, watches it shrivel and char.

 

"You'll burn it," Jaejoong mumbles, ignoring his own plate and snapping his chopsticks in the air.

 

"Junsu likes it well-done," Yoochun reminds easily, nudging at Junsu's shoulder.

 

Jaejoong averts his eyes.

 

"If you cook it too long," he muses quietly, "it's gonna be too tough to chew." He lowers his chopsticks. "Too hard to swallow." Under the table, he digs his toes into Yoochun's shin. "Better eat it now."

 

Yoochun's heart chains itself to his ribcage.

 

"...I'm just gonna..." Junsu murmurs awkwardly, poking at the grill with a single chopstick, "...eat this... onion..."

 

*

 

"Trying to date her," Yoochun complains over the phone, "and having an ulcer feels the same."

 

Jaejoong laughs, a little brokenly. "Let's not make that into a song."

 

Sleepy, Yoochun grins, sliding his shower door to the side.

 

He probably can't take his phone in there, right.

 

The comforting hiss of steam relaxes his muscles and he plans to say _see you in a week, maybe_ , but Jaejoong sounds drunk or depressed or drunk-depressed, and there's a soft, hopefully imaginary, "Everybody wants me, why don't you."

 

And because Jaejoong can't possibly hear him over the shower spray and because maybe Jaejoong's just composing a song, Yoochun sighs, "Everybody wants you. Including me."

 

 

*

 

It doesn't make sense for someone who sings about paradise to look like hell.

 

It also doesn't make sense to get this shitfaced on a weekday.

 

But the damn coupon book.

 

"I was in the middle of a date," Yoochun accuses with a plaintive slur, sprawled across Jaejoong's coffee table.

 

"Oh," Jaejoong nods, draped over Yoochun's back.

 

"I thought you were DYING," Yoochun growls, knuckles white around his sixth bottle of soju.

 

Jaejoong clinks his fifth bottle against Yoochun's. "I said the TV. TV. Dead."

 

Laughing, Yoochun reaches back with a free hand and ruffles Jaejoong's sticky disheveled hair. "You're too..."

 

"Disruptive."

 

"Yes," Yoochun smacks his lips, thankful. "Too disruptive. Are you gonna make me—gonna make me fix your TV during my wedding vows."

 

Jaejoong stills atop him.

 

He shifts until his lips are wrapping around the neck of Yoochun's bottle, practically sucking it off, then releases it with an indecent wet plop.

 

"Chun-ah," he whispers, hips grinding into Yoochun's ass. "I need to put my mouth on something."

 

Fuck, Yoochun thinks distantly, but he's just so warm and itchy and things are a hazy happy blur so he jokingly bares one shoulder and snorts, "Okay."

 

*

 

The interviewer asks about it with a polite smile.

 

"Accident on set," Yoochun laughs pleasantly and rolls down his sleeves, tugs his turtleneck aside, turns the charm up.

 

There's a string of bites purpling beneath the wool, like a chainlink fence winding around his throat and chest and arms.

 

Doesn't hurt but there's a deep horrible ache of shame and disgust every time Yoochun remembers catching that first glimpse of his body in the mirror.

 

"Our Yoochunnie should be more careful in the future," Jaejoong hums and pats Yoochun's leg.

 

Doesn't let go.

 

Nonplussed, Junsu kicks at his shoe, then adjusts the mic. "In the future, JYJ, as Incheon ambassadors—"

 

Under the table, visible to the press, Jaejoong slides his hand up Yoochun's thigh, nails briefly grazing against Yoochun's zipper.

 

*

 

Yoochun goes to a VIP premiere by himself.

 

He accidentally knocks shoulders with an actress.

 

It lasts all of one second.

 

He forgets about it before he's even two steps away.

 

But when Yoochun wakes up to the angry sound of his doorbell in the morning, there are missed calls and voicemails from his manager and a slew of confused text messages.

 

Groggy, Yoochun scrolls through his phone as he trudges to the door and keys in his access code.

 

Bundled up, cheeks pink, Yoohwan stumbles in, shedding boots and three coats and a stolen scarf, shoving his phone in Yoochun's face.

 

Bleary-eyed, Yoochun glances from his phone—where online tabloids are energetically announcing his shotgun wedding to an actress he doesn't even know—to Yoohwan's screen.

 

"This is so messed up," Yoohwan says, shivering with cold, mouth twitching, phone a frozen blur.

 

Yoochun squints.

 

On Yoohwan's phone, instead of scandalized headlines and preposterous rumors, there's a grainy instagram photo.

 

"So messed up," Yoohwan repeats, eyes bright.

 

The picture is dark and filtered and Yoochun's never seen it before, but it's definitely him, curled up atop a row of uncomfortable airport chairs, asleep, covered with a fluffy parka, boots still on.

 

His face isn't visible, but his tattoo is.

 

Under the heavy jacket and the fuzzy hood, there's an open flap where the material yields to gravity.

 

Something strange pools low in his gut as his vision clears.

 

Only Jaejoong's name is legible, tucked above Yoochun's heart.

 

Pulse frantic, Yoochun glances at the description, but there's only this,

 

_uploaded one hour ago._

 

*

 

"We gotta talk."

 

Jaejoong pauses, snatches his headphones, and tries to flee the studio.

 

Yoochun grabs for his shirt and for a moment, it feels like he's trying to hold a jagged piece of glass in his hands, so he growls, "Hyung."

 

Jaejoong stops struggling.

 

"I was drunk," he apologizes, shoulders slumping. "You know how I get about my members, Yoochunnie."

 

A sharp ache twines through Yoochun.

 

"I'm mostly talking about these," he says and pats the fading bites under his jacket.

 

"...drunk then, too..."

 

"Hyung, it's fine," Yoochun snaps, frustrated, "I get it. I get you're like this with everyone, but—"

 

But what.

 

"Don't do it again," he finishes.

 

Jaejoong turns, suspicious.

 

"Because I'm going to properly focus on dating from now on, so—"

 

Pale, Jaejoong meets his eyes.

 

"Okay."

 

*

 

A week of no texts and then Jaejoong cashes in the last remaining coupon.

 

Tells Yoochun to make tteokbokki.

 

Out of spite, Yoochun makes it spicier than either of them can handle, overcooks the rice cakes until they're a sticky inedible mess, and purposefully dirties up the pristine white stove with red chili sauce.

 

"Was that secretly a coupon for euthanasia," Jaejoong wonders, nose scrunched up, knees drawn to his chest. He's folded himself on the kitchen floor, back against the oven, next to Yoochun's feet.

 

"You got me," Yoochun grins, shaking the pan. A piece of julienned pepper flies out and lands on Jaejoong's head.

 

"You can't get married like this," Jaejoong complains but stuffs the pepper into his mouth.

 

"There's always takeout," Yoochun shrugs, then looks down.

 

Jaejoong's cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling, mouth pouty, birthmark visible even from this angle, stretching as his jaw clenches. "Doesn't takeout feel so..."

 

"Empty."

 

"Empty," Jaejoong agrees, batting at Yoochun's embarrassing borrowed apron.

 

"You think everything feels empty," Yoochun points out and only regrets it a little.

 

But Jaejoong just smiles. "This doesn't."

 

Yoochun burns his hand.

 

Instinctively, he wipes it on his apron.

 

"When I'm married," he starts, flustered, trying to remember whether burns need ice or cold water or paramedics, "I won't—"

 

His apron is tied neatly in the front, not the back, and Jaejoong reaches up and tugs the knot loose.

 

The strings untangle, flutter down, peel the apron away from Yoochun's body.

 

"Hyung."

 

Jaejoong brushes the apron aside and brings his mouth to Yoochun's zipper.

 

He presses a clumsy kiss to Yoochun's crotch, through the thick baggy jeans.

 

"No," Yoochun says firmly, but his voice is kind of deep and rough and unconvincing.

 

Quietly, Jaejoong grabs for his hips and uses them to push up, to walk Yoochun into the nearest wall, fingers clamping down hard.

 

Yoochun's hand is burning.

 

It's gonna scar and fuck everything up.

 

"No," he reasons, shaking, "I want to get married."

 

Jaejoong kisses him.

 

Yoochun's hand is burning and the stove is burning, the food, the pan, Yoochun's lips, maybe the whole apartment, maybe the world.

 

So he pushes Jaejoong off, turns his face to the side, and pants, "And I want to have kids—"

 

Jaejoong follows, lips bruising along the way until they meet Yoochun's.

 

"And I want—"

 

"Me," Jaejoong breathes, bites down, bends the buckle, tears at a belt loop.

 

The word rings terrifyingly true, so Yoochun shoves him off and wipes at his lips, heart thundering.

 

"Don't drag me down with you."

 

Jaejoong's face falls.

 

"Yoochun," he starts, shaking. "Some things—" he trails off, vulnerable, clearly afraid and apologetic. "There are things about me that I can't change," he starts again. Stops. "The way I feel about you," he manages awkwardly, "is incurable."

 

Yoochun bails.

 

*

 

The sun sets early and Yoochun calls his mother.

 

"Are there any dirty dishes," he asks but means _can I come over_.

 

There's a brief pause and then his mother says, with concern and care, "Come over, Yoochunnie, Mom will find some."

 

*

 

Yoochun dips a plate into the sink, sleeves rolled up, suds soaking through his watchstrap.

 

"I want to get married," he says.

 

Next to him, his mother nods, rinsing off the cleanest plate in the universe. "Have you met a nice girl."

 

"No," Yoochun murmurs, "but I want—"

 

...what the fuck does he want.

 

"You want grandkids, right."

 

His mother turns the faucet off. "I want you and Yoohwannie to be happy."

 

Yoochun's chest tightens.

 

"I'm going to get married," he promises firmly.

 

"Yoochunnie," his mother says kindly, reaching into Yoochun's side of the sink and draining it, "you've been saying that for ten years."

 

The last of the soapy water gurgles down the drain, slips through Yoochun's fingers. "Eleven years."

 

"You've been happy for eleven years."

 

Yoochun blinks.

 

"Won't you be even happier," his mother wonders lightly, "if you stand by that person's side properly."

 

*

 

All of this is fixable.

 

Jaejoong's forgiven worse.

 

And he can't be serious, can't possibly want to ruin everything, not over Yoochun.

 

Yoochun's an idiot and straight and maybe that makes him an interesting, amusing target—

 

No.

 

Away from the cameras and fans and his image, Jaejoong is the most sincere person Yoochun knows.

 

But Yoochun is straight.

 

He's straight.

 

He can't get turned on by men, by Jaejoong, it's just not how his body works.

 

He can't control or change this aspect of himself.

 

With a groan, Yoochun mouths at his pillow, stomach down, hand shoved deep into his boxers.

 

It's cruel and impossible but Yoochun tries.

 

Tries to replace the feel of his fingers with Jaejoong's fingers, with Jaejoong's mouth.

 

His cock pulses wildly.

 

The feel of Jaejoong's lips on his neck.

 

The slow, pained wince when he bites his bottom lip on stage.

 

The way his eyes narrow when he smiles.

 

The way he sounds when—

 

Yoochun comes hard, robbed of breath and pretense.

 

*

 

They cross paths at the studio.

 

Accidentally.

 

In fact, Yoochun double-checks the schedule to make sure Jaejoong's nowhere near the recording booth, but.

 

"Sorry," Jaejoong mumbles and waves and heads off.

 

There should be a rising thick insurmountable wall of awkward shame, but Yoochun only feels stupidly happy.

 

He takes a rushed step and spreads his arms wide and catches Jaejoong in a bone-breaking back hug.

 

"What are you doing," Jaejoong asks stiffly and it's almost comical.

 

"Practicing my bodyguard skills," Yoochun murmurs. "For my new drama."

 

Jaejoong relaxes.

 

"Let's grab a drink."

 

*

 

"I feel like I've been trying to chop down the same stupid tree for eleven years," Jaejoong apologizes drunkenly, equally contrite and bitter, "and every time I swing that axe, every time I get a hit in, I think," he knocks his beer bottle against Yoochun's and childishly slumps to the pojangmacha table, "this is it, this time I did it, I brought it down, I can take it home, it's mine."

 

Yoochun has to say something.

 

But everything inside him is on fire.

 

"I guess," Jaejoong mumbles into the wobbly plastic table, ramyun forgotten, cheap tarp flapping around them in the wind, "I kinda realized I'm not allowed to chop down that tree and I'm... just. I'm sorry I tried. I'll stop. I'll really stop this time."

 

Yoochun must be running a fever. Or he must be drunk. Or he must be sadistic because he puffs into his beer bottle and says calmly, "Your analogies are so convoluted, hyung."

 

Jaejoong looks up, adorably perplexed. "I thought that was a metaphor."

 

"...we probably shouldn't have dropped out of high school."

 

Jaejoong smiles, burrowing back into the table. "I'm putting the axe away, Yoochun-ah." Lightly, he nudges Yoochun's shoe with his. "I promise."

 

Yoochun burns up.

 

"Good."

 

*

 

To reestablish a normal brotherly relationship, they go drinking on a Saturday.

 

Outside.

 

Where there are people.

 

No media, just a well-behaved, pre-screened mass of people with powered-off cell phones and tight lips and Jaejoong says _let's find you a girl_.

 

By midnight, girls find him, find Jaejoong, find their way into a bland conversation and a shared round of overpriced drinks and then Yoochun steps away, needs a break, can't breathe and drown in Jaejoong's cologne anymore.

 

He volunteers to fetch the next round and bails out of the booth, flushed and sweaty and nauseated.

 

Exhausted, he leans on the bar and politely signals the bartender.

 

Something feels... wrong.

 

Dizzy, he grabs a barstool and leans his head into his hands, waiting.

 

"Yoochun-ssi," someone says and Yoochun looks up.

 

It's some guy who looks vaguely familiar and he maybe introduces himself but Yoochun's head is pounding badly.

 

It's just white noise and sounds of falling trees and a feeling so intense and hopeless he feels like throwing up.

 

"—like you."

 

Four bottles appear before him, so Yoochun looks up, swivels the chair around, unsteady. "What."

 

"I like you," the guy says and Yoochun thinks, oh.

 

It's not Jaejoong.

 

Maybe it's not Jaejoong.

 

Maybe it's men.

 

Maybe this is just a phase Yoochun has to go through, try it out, wear it for a while, see for himself, sate whatever latent curiosity exists within him.

 

Maybe Yoochun likes men.

 

Maybe it's really not Jaejoong.

 

It's not Jaejoong.

 

"Okay," he says, frowning, the roof of his mouth dry.

 

The guy perks up, stunned, then hastily locks his fingers around Yoochun's forearm. "Should we leave, Yoochun-ssi."

 

Okay.

 

Yeah.

 

Yoochun should leave.

 

His stomach is burning and so is his throat and so are his eyes and Jaejoong's scent somehow lingers everywhere, oddly, persistently.

 

"Let's go," he says and hops off the barstool and the guy is shorter than him and it's weird not being at eye-level. It's unfamiliar. Wrong.

 

He takes a step and two and three with the guy anyway.

 

And then the burn moves lower, to the small of his back, under his jacket, where a hand is tightly fisted in his shirt.

 

"No," Jaejoong says, pressed firmly into his back.

 

Yoochun turns his head slightly and yeah. This is.

 

Eye-level.

 

This is.

 

Not wrong.

 

"What happened to the axe," Yoochun says with drunken confidence, "you said you put it away."

 

Jaejoong's fingers flex furiously, tearing at Yoochun's seams.

 

"Replaced it with a chainsaw."

 

*

 

Jaejoong's apartment is dark and cold and Hiro doesn't scuttle over to greet them.

 

Or maybe he does but Yoochun doesn't notice because Jaejoong is kissing him.

 

"No," he tells Yoochun between licks and bites, desperate, frustrated, "I didn't wait eleven years to let it go to someone else—"

 

Yoochun shouldn't stumble under Jaejoong's weight, shouldn't lose his footing, shouldn't lose control. "Hyung, what—"

 

"This," Jaejoong says, yanking on Yoochun's belt and pressing him into a wall, "all your firsts—they should be mine, Yoochunnie, I'm sorry."

 

Recklessly, he tears the belt off, then pulls the jeans down to Yoochun's ankles and pauses, eyes clearing in the dim light.

 

"Chun-ah," he whispers falteringly. "Do you understand."

 

Yoochun doesn't understand anything.

 

"Yeah," he says and kisses Jaejoong.

 

*

 

The thing about Jaejoong's bed is that it feels strangely like home.

 

"Too drunk," Yoochun warns, gripping the sheets on each side, the top of his head brushing against the headboard with every breath, "not gonna do any work, hyung."

 

He knows Jaejoong will translate it properly.

 

With an amazed laugh, Jaejoong stills atop him and burrows into Yoochun's collarbone like it's a safe place, like it's the safest place.

 

"Idiot."

 

*

 

"I'm close," Jaejoong promises, but doesn't speed up, doesn't change the angle, just persists, sheathed inside Yoochun. "Soon."

 

After eleven years, Yoochun has cataloged every detail, memorized every possible combination of Jaejoong's features. He knows when Jaejoong is lying even when _Jaejoong_ doesn't.

 

So when Jaejoong rolls his hips, bites his bottom lip with a glance at Yoochun's face, sighs into Yoochun's mouth, bolts Yoochun's hips into the mattress, Yoochun's not surprised.

 

"Almost," Jaejoong lies after a slow, deep thrust, mouth catching on Yoochun's, eyes shut in pleasure.

 

Yoochun just stares.

 

Feels something inside, literally and figuratively, shift. Like a slanted terrain stripped of protection, his heart just dives under this feeling, comes apart and tumbles down spectacularly.

 

Shit.

 

It's Jaejoong, he thinks with certainty.

 

It's definitely Jaejoong.

 

The small of Yoochun's back aches and his cock is throbbing and the slow burning stretch inside him drags against parts he didn't know existed, so he bends one knee higher, shifting the angle and Jaejoong sinks in deeper, shaking.

 

The apartment's almost freezing, but there's a slippery sheen of sweat between them, filthy and indecent, and Jaejoong moans into Yoochun's ear, "I don't know how to stop."

 

The ache becomes a splitting soreness, coiling pressure through Yoochun's spine and cock and chest. "Did I say you had to."

 

Jaejoong shudders helplessly.

 

With obvious effort, he readjusts, moves one slick hand to anchor the underside of Yoochun's knee, pushes between his thighs and spreads him open impossibly wide, drags his cock out all the way and sinks back in.

 

A sharp heavy twinge travels through Yoochun.

 

He bucks up with a dazed, "Oh."

 

Eyes wet, Jaejoong smiles and slips his other hand between their bodies, gripping the base of Yoochun's cock.

 

"Oh," Yoochun repeats, louder, back arching off the mattress.

 

He keeps his hands away, almost politely, tangled in the damp sheets, but then a strong stupid wave of pleasure and affection curls through him, overwhelming and wild, forcing his lips to part and say,

 

"I love you."

 

He's said the words before, on camera, off camera, but never like this, not to Jaejoong's face, not while being fucked into a confession.

 

Jaejoong doesn't look at him.

 

He just moans into his skin and finally picks up the pace, slamming into Yoochun with oddly instinctive precision, grazing against his prostate and Yoochun can't control his hands anymore, feels them just senselessly wrap around Jaejoong's back.

 

The pressure plateaus, chasing through all of Yoochun's nerve endings.

 

When he comes, suddenly, unexpectedly, and empties between their sweaty bodies, nothing inside him feels _empty_ , just populated with little sparks of pleasure and comfort.

 

Wrecked, he throws an arm over his face, panting, spent.

 

Hand burning-hot and sticky with come, Jaejoong pushes Yoochun's arm off to meet his eyes.

 

"More," he says and moves.

 

*

 

Yoochun drops the groceries to the floor, tosses Jaejoong's car keys to the kitchen counter, and yawns.

 

Promptly, Jaejoong pokes his head in.

 

"...the TV broke again..."

 

Unimpressed, Yoochun makes a face. "You mean you broke it."

 

"Nooo," Jaejoong defends innocently, leaning his flushed forehead to the doorway and basically sparkling, "this time it really did crap out on its own."

 

Yoochun brushes by him into the living room.

 

"So what you're saying is," he translates, "I should buy us a new one."

 

"Yes," Jaejoong grins beautifully, getting in his way on one side while Hiro enthusiastically tries to trip him on the other, "because you love me."

 

"Because I wanna watch my show," Yoochun argues.

 

"...and because you love me," Jaejoong urges, more sternly.

 

With a wicked grin, Yoochun crouches by the entertainment center. "Mostly because of my show."

 

Jaejoong drapes himself across Yoochun's back like a very clingy cape, smiling into his neck, covering Yoochun's left hand with his. "Mostly because you love me."

 

Yoochun unplugs the set, weighed down by Jaejoong's warmth, and hides a stupid overwhelmed lopsided smile.

 

His ring scuffs against Jaejoong's.

 

"Yeah, mostly that."


End file.
